


Pistachios and Popsicles

by angelicaschuyler



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, QPQVerse, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 01:43:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6450361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelicaschuyler/pseuds/angelicaschuyler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the third night in a row. And it’s getting old. </p><p>Or - Alex has tonsillitis, George can't sleep, and it's time for a doctor's visit. QPQ Verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pistachios and Popsicles

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks to [rillrill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill) for letting us ride on her coattails. This is part of the [Quid Pro Quo](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5880157) verse, but can be read independently. 

It’s the third night in a row. And it’s getting old.

George wakes up - 2:14 a.m., he notes - to the sound of Alex hacking into his pillowcase, shoulders trembling, face pink and flushed when he rolls over onto his back. Still sleeping, somehow. George doesn’t know how he manages that.

And then, again - 3:32 a.m. George is spooned up behind him when he starts to twist and groan in his arms. George loosens his grip and scoots back - it’s been a couple years, he knows better than to try to keep Alex still when he gets like this. And yet, it still earns him a sharp kick with Alex’s heel digging in just above his knee. He doesn’t wake up when George yelps. Just rolls onto his stomach and starfishes on the bed, clears his throat and - just when George is drifting off - the hacking starts back up. Alex hugs the pillow in his sleep, pressing it into his face and trying to muffle the sound.

George grabs his own pillow and carries it out to the living room, sprawling out on the sectional. He’d been able to put up with it the last two nights. But they have work tomorrow and at this rate, factoring in his morning jog, he’s going to be running on just a little over five hours of sleep.

He wakes up at 4:50 a.m., anyway - knows that if he skips his run he’ll feel even more out of sorts. He returns promptly at 5:45 a.m. Like clockwork. Every morning. He inhales when he steps inside the entryway, stretching his arms over his head, expecting the distinct scent of coffee and eggs. (Alex is in the habit now of making them breakfast whenever he stays on work nights, usually the table is set just as George is getting out of the shower.) But all the lights are still off and the kitchen is empty and untouched.

Odd. George walks into the bedroom, flipping on the ceiling fan switch.

“No lights!” Alex’s voice, hoarse and barely above a whisper, calls out from beneath a pile of blankets.

George switches them back off and carefully approaches the bed, sitting down on the edge and pulling the bedclothes off Alex, slowly, noting the way he shivers and buries his face deeper into his pillow. George frowns and puts his palm flat on the small of his back, just where his shirt is starting to ride up. He’s hot to the touch.

“Sweetheart, you’re burning up.”

Alex groans and rolls onto his side, chapped lips parting but no words coming out.

“Did you sleep out on the couch?” he manages after clearing his throat a couple times, eyes watering when he swallows.

“You were coughing all night. Don’t try to talk right now,” George says, gently brushing Alex’s hair out of his eyes and keeping his hand pressed to his forehead. Alex mumbles a garbled protest when he realizes what George is doing.

When he finally gets Alex to agree to the thermometer, it reads 102.8 degrees.

“This is - what, the fourth time this year alone?” George asks as he feels along Alex’s neck, just below his jaw line. Swollen. Recurrent tonsillitis, if he had to guess. His step-son went through the same exact thing as a preteen.

Alex grabs hold of both his wrists and pulls his hands away from his face. “I’ll stay at my apartment until it passes if I’m bothering you - ” he swallows again, face pinched in obvious pain. His words so jumbled it takes George a moment to translate.

“I said no talking,” he says kindly, smiling off of Alex’s eye roll and tugging the blankets back up to his shoulders. “I’m calling Eliza. She’s taking you to the doctor today.”

In any other circumstance it would be comical - the way Alex’s eyes widen like saucer plates. Instead, it makes George’s heart sink.

“No,” Alex hisses, scrambling to sit upright. “No doctors.”

“They’re going to prescribe you antibiotics, that’s all,” George says, though he can’t be certain. “I’m booked all morning. I can’t take time off.” _Not that I could be with you, anyway,_ he thinks to himself, bitterly.

Alex’s eyes start to well up with tears and George can’t tell if it’s a play for sympathy or genuine fear. It could go either way with Alex - he knows how to push his buttons.

“I’m not going. I can’t miss work today, either, I - ”

“Son,” George says, raising one eyebrow, stopping Alex mid-sentence. He knows how to play this game, too. “You’re not coming into the office like this.” And then, softer, hand carding through Alex’s dark hair. “I hate worrying about you. I can’t focus when you’re like this. Please?”

Oh yes, he can definitely play this game.

Alex screws his eyes shut and leans into his touch, digging into his bottom lip with his teeth. It’d be cute, almost, if he didn’t look so flushed and miserable. “And you promise they’re just going to write me a prescription?”

George hesitates. “Yes.”

Alex nods, blinking back tears. And then, voice strained and cracking, “OK. OK, I’ll go.”

“Good boy,” George says, brushing his lips against Alex’s burning forehead. “I’ll call Eliza and tell her everything. No more talking from now on - I mean it.”

 

* * *

 

He’s walking out of his 9:30 with Greene when his phone vibrates in his pocket.

_“You promised they’d give me antibiotics and send me home.”_

George sends back a reply just as he unlocks his car and climbs in. _“What’s going on?”_

Alex shoots back an answer before he can even close the door.

_“Not what you promised.”_

George closes his eyes as he fastens his seatbelt, collects himself before replying. _“Are you OK?”_

Alex’s read receipt shows up immediately but he doesn’t reply. Frustrated, George tosses his phone onto the passenger seat and turns on the radio, keeping the volume low as he makes his way to his 10 a.m. meeting. It doesn’t take long before Eliza’s name shows up on the dashboard’s caller ID. He taps the “accept call” button on his steering wheel.

“Hey,” Eliza says, her sleepy voice filling the car and making George feel a little guilty for putting her to work so early in the morning. “Alex was making a show of not texting you back. I figured you’d want an update.”

“Yes,” George says dryly. “Would you put him on?”

“No can do. They’re taking him into surgery to remove his tonsils.”

George’s stomach tightens. “Same day? They didn’t schedule - ?”

“They had an opening,” Eliza says. “Probably better this way, don’t you think? We would’ve had to drag him back kicking and screaming otherwise.”

George sighs, drumming his fingers along the steering wheel. “This is what I was worried about. He’s angry, then?”

“Oh, it’s been a fun morning,” Eliza says, voice dripping with sarcasm in a way George isn’t used to. It almost makes him smile. “He’s definitely not pleased with you. But you know Alex - he’ll pout for a day or two and then realize he’s acting like a child. I talked to his surgeon. It’s all very textbook. Very routine. He’ll be in and out in 45 minutes and I’ll have him back at your apartment by the time you’re heading home.”

“He’ll be fine?” George asks, slowing to a stop at a yellow light, ignoring the angry driver honking behind him.

“He’ll be fine.”

George nods to himself, feeling some of the tension lift from his shoulders. “Thank you. Again. I know he’s a handful when he gets like this.”

Eliza laughs softly around a yawn. “I can handle it. I’ll let you know when he’s back at your place.”

 

* * *

 

He’s packing up to leave by 4:30 p.m., trying to put the day’s frustrations behind him, eager to get home to Alex, when his phone vibrates across his desk. A text from Eliza.

_“Alex insisted on going back to his own place. So that’s where he is. Sorry, I tried.”_

George drops his phone back on his desk, sighs and looks up to the ceiling. With D.C. traffic, that’ll tack another 20 minutes onto his drive. Fantastic.

He stops at a Trader Joe’s on his way to Alex’s apartment and picks up pistachio ice cream and assorted fruit popsicles - what he hopes will work as a peace offering. In the back of his mind, he knew this would happen - knew that with recurrent tonsillitis, the doctors would want to move forward with a surgery. That’s what happened with Jacky. But there’s no way in hell he would’ve managed to get Alex to agree to a doctor’s visit. Not if he’d known surgery was on the table.

When he reaches Alex’s apartment, paper bag balanced in one arm, he knocks twice and rings the bell once. No answer - predictable. He uses his own key and lets himself in. The lights are all off and there’s Alex - sprawled across the bed, just a few feet from the studio’s tiny kitchen. (George is going to talk him into moving to a place with an actual bedroom - one day).

Alex takes one look at him and rolls over so he’s facing the wall.

George quietly goes about putting the groceries away in the freezer, loads the dishwasher, cleans out the reusable Keurig cup - not that Alex will be drinking hot coffee anytime soon. When he glances back to the living room, he finds Alex staring - and then rolling back over as soon as he’s caught.

“All right, you’re mad,” George says to his back, shrugging a shoulder. He turns to the door, pulling his keys out. “For what it’s worth, I figured if you needed an operation they’d schedule it. I thought we’d have some time to talk through it - get you comfortable.”

A pause. No response.

“Anyway. I left you ice cream and popsicles in the freezer. Call if you need anything.”

He’s halfway out the door when he hears a frantic rustle and then - something soft bouncing off the back of his head. He turns around and finds Alex sitting upright, looking resigned and a bit guilty. George looks down and finds a paper ball at his feet.

George smirks. “Change your mind?”

Alex gestures at his throat and throws his hands up, then scoots over so he’s closer to the wall. He pats the open spot on the bed.

“I could get used to this,” George jokes when he crosses the room, toeing his shoes off and nudging them under the bed, laughing softly at the way Alex’s eyes immediately jump to his hands as he unfastens his belt. Alex’s eyes flicker up to his, face growing red. He grabs his notebook off the bedside table, scribbles something down and holds it up.

“ _‘Don’t push your luck, old man. I’m still mad at you,’_ ” George reads with a smile once he’s stripped down to his boxer briefs. He neatly folds his clothes over the back of Alex’s armchair. “As entertaining as it would be to watch you try and keep your mouth shut - not tonight. You need to rest.”

Alex sets his jaw and underlines _“I’m still mad at you”_ twice before flipping the notebook back around.

George arches an eyebrow. “Would pistachio ice cream help?”

Alex considers this and then, with a mischievous grin, writes, _“Only if you eat some with me - and skip your morning run tomorrow.”_  

George has to laugh at that and, well, if ice cream and sleeping in is all it takes to earn Alex’s forgiveness - he’s game.

“I’ll grab us a couple bowls.”

* * *

 

**Also for the Quid Pro Quo verse:**

[Dry Spell](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6366067)

[Destinations](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6293752)

[Outgunned](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6381889)

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [a-schuyler](http://a-schuyler.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, if you'd like to say hi!


End file.
